


Never Be Lonely

by TextReciprocation



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Flowers, Fluff, Gift Giving, M/M, author is a sad bisexual boy who just wants crowley to be happy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-19
Updated: 2019-07-19
Packaged: 2020-07-08 12:30:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,556
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19869685
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TextReciprocation/pseuds/TextReciprocation
Summary: As he watched books melt into ash, Crowley began to understand just what it meant to have a best friend. Friends come and go, but best friends are always there, even when they aren’t. Best friends can disappear for a century without leaving at all because best friends become a part of you. They become as ubiquitous as the traffic noises of a busy street, ever-present, unflinching.Losing a best friend is more dreadful than anything hell could ever manifest.  To have him returned to you and then given the freedom to relish in his presence like you never could before... it overwhelmed Crowley. He didn’t quite know what to do.And so, the flowers began.(Or: Crowley is a demon in love, and he doesn't know how to handle it. So he buys flowers. Lots and lots of flowers.)





	Never Be Lonely

**Author's Note:**

> (EDIT: went through and fixed a spacing problem, there was an extra space after every italic for some unholy reason)
> 
> guess who is a LITTLE tipsy on a LITTLE bit of red wine and posting a LITTLE bit of VERY FLUFFY fanfic?? me thats who, being an adult is so awesome
> 
> rated for mild sexual content, definitely not heavy enough to merit an NC-17, but consider yourself warned regardless. just a lil bit of heavy petting. some making out. you know. guys being dudes.
> 
> (also happy late birthday ava!!! this one's for u!! also hi asad i'm definitely forcing u to read this too lol)

For the billions of humans huddled in bunches around the globe, the world ended (or didn’t end, rather) at five thirty-eight PM on a Saturday. 

For Crowley, the wretched snake of Eden, the world ended five hours and forty-eight minutes early as a bookshop in SoHo went up in dazzling, dreadful flames. For Crowley, the world ended the moment he realized — incorrectly, as it so happened — that Aziraphale was dead.

To Crowley, Aziraphale was worth a hundred billion tottering bi-pedal mortals. Nay, a _hundred trillion_. A hundred trillion _septillion_. Aziraphale was worth more than every atom of Alpha Centauri, every flame of hell, and every sunbeam of heaven. 

Aziraphale was his best and only friend.

As he watched books melt into ash, Crowley began to understand just what it _meant_ to have a best friend. Friends come and go, but _best_ friends are always there, even when they aren’t. Best friends can disappear for a century without leaving at all because _best_ friends become a part of you. They become as ubiquitous as the traffic noises of a busy street, ever-present, unflinching.

Losing a best friend is more dreadful than anything hell could ever manifest. To have him returned to you and then given the freedom to relish in his presence like you never could before... it overwhelmed Crowley. He didn’t quite know what to _do._

And so, the flowers began. 

They started — as things with Crowley are wont to start — on a whim. 

It was a dismal Tuesday morning, perfect for a bit of healthy mayhem. Potential shoplifters, adulterers, and fiends littered the streets, waiting for a push in the right (wrong?) direction. Rounding the corner of a busy street, Crowley spotted a two-story flower shop with sunflowers in the display window. A dreadfully cheerful place, not his cup of tea at all. 

And yet, as he peered through the crystal clear windows, he couldn’t help but imagine how Aziraphale would smile at the bundles on display. His best friend held a great deal of love for Earth’s simplest pleasures — fresh flowers, warm bread, sweet perfume. 

_Well, it looks like they sell jewelry as well. Perhaps I could find a young lady with sticky fingers,_ he reasoned, _convince her to snatch a brooch._

He walked into the store feeling out of place in his skin-tight leather pants and sleek black shades. The interior smelled of lavender. It made Crowley’s nose itch.

“Hullo, sir,” piped a voice from behind the register. A plump older man with rosy cheeks smiled up at him. Abysmal. “Do you need any help this morning? A present for the missus, perhaps?”

“There is no missus,” Crowley snapped, feeling flustered in spite of himself.

“Ah, I’m terribly sorry. A mister, perhaps? A mother? No matter, I won’t be nosy. We’ve just received a delightful shipment of Sunflowers, the finest in London, rest-assured. And our jewelry is hand-crafted, so each piece is one of a kind.”

“That’s... lovely,” Crowley muttered. He wanted nothing more than to turn around and leave the wretched place, and yet...

He marched over, grabbed a vase of sunflowers from the display, and plonked them in front of the cheerful cashier, who looked confused and upset.

“I’ll take these.”

* * *

Crowley felt foolish walking through London with a vase full of flowers, so he rushed home as quickly as he could. He set the vase on his desk and stared at it in shock and horror. His plants began to tremble, worried that he may take the poor vase to the garbage disposal.

He didn’t. Instead, he sighed, picked it up, and headed for Aziraphale’s bookstore.

It was midday by then, and the clouds had cleared up over London. Uncovered at last, the sun warmed the streets. Puddles glistened under the rays of light, eager to evaporate. Pedestrians put away their umbrellas. _A pity,_ Crowley mused, _it was so wonderfully_ dismal _earlier._

When he reached the bookstore, he took great care _not_ to pause and consider his actions. That would have been an _atrocious_ idea. Instead, he rushed through the door, placed the flowers on a windowsill, and walked as far away from them as he could.

“Welcome to — oh, it’s you!” Aziraphale trotted out of the back of the store, a grin on his face. “Isn’t the weather _wonderful_? I thought it would rain all day. I love a bit of sunlight after a rainy morning. A young couple came in earlier, and they said — oh.”

Aziraphale noticed the flowers on the windowsill. His pale skin flushed, and his starry eyes twinkled. Crowley’s chest constricted.

“My goodness, they’re _lovely_ ,” Aziraphale gasped, rushing over to inspect them. He ran reverent fingertips over the pale blue vase and sniffed the petals. “And fresh, too. Did — did you —”

“I’ve got no idea what you’re talking about,” Crowley said, shrugging. “I just came over to invite you to lunch. There’s a new place down the street. I’ve heard that the crème pâtissière is to die for.”

“Oh! Well then,” Aziraphale said, giving the flowers one last delighted glance. “We best be going.”

Lunch was more stilted than usual. Aziraphale looked worried but said nothing. Crowley drank a dozen cups of coffee with his sandwich and complained about the crème pâtissière at dessert. His physical form twitched from the caffeine, and he used his demonic powers to foot the bill and leave early. 

“Well, I know the crème pâtissière wasn’t up to your standards, but the sandwiches were splendid,” Aziraphale chirped as they walked out, voice laced with false cheerfulness. “Would you like to come back to the bookshop with me?“

“Not today, Aziraphale,” Crowley said. “Things to do, people to corrupt. I’ll call you later.”

With that, Crowley split off from Aziraphale and ran back to his car, eager to get away. 

* * *

Later that night, Crowley found himself sprawled on the couch in nothing but his socks and underwear, rip-roaring drunk and lamenting his woes to his plants.

“I don’t even _like_ flowers,” he slurred, brandishing his bottle of white Zinfandel. “They’re stupid. They make my nose itch. Why do we need them, anyway? They’re nasty little — ugh, what _are_ they — they’re _plant boners_ , that’s what they are. Botanical erections. Nasty, horny little fucks. I’m surprised _demons_ didn’t invent them.”

His plants, beginning to feel somewhat threatened, shook in agreement and silently vowed to never, _ever_ grow flowers.

“I just... I thought, well, if they’re going to be around anyway, they might as well be with Aziraphale. _He_ likes flowers. He likes lots of things, he likes...” Crowley trailed off as he remembered Aziraphale’s delight at the simple pleasure of a bouquet. His plants — now terribly confused — stopped shaking. “He likes stuff. Things. People. Nice things, human things. Not demon things.”

For a moment, the plants felt a bit sorry for Crowley.

“But don’t get any bloody ideas,” Crowley roared, leaping up with a drunken tilt. “I’m not Aziraphale, I’m not _nice_. Stay in shape or it’ll be the garbage disposal for all of you.”

The plants went back to their quivering, suitably terrified. Crowley stormed off to bed.

The next morning, Crowley found himself once again standing in front of a flower shop. A different one, this time, with hydrangeas in the window. Crowley bought them with a scowl on his face and ignored the strange warmth fluttering around in his stomach.

* * *

“Oh my! Hydrangeas,” Aziraphale cooed, approaching the vase — sat upon a stack of books, this time. “And there’s some little lavender sprigs as well, how lovely. I suppose they can live here for now, until I clear a place off the windowsill.”

“Lunch,” Crowley said impatiently, feeling both pleased and perturbed by Aziraphale’s glee. “Any ideas?”

“I was thinking of staying in for lunch, actually,” Aziraphale said. “I bought some wonderful cheeses from the deli down the street. I was going to make sandwiches. Would you like to stay?”

With the way Aziraphale was looking at him — open, warm, affectionate — Crowley couldn’t bring himself to say no.

Fifteen minutes later, Crowley was sitting at his best friend’s kitchen table, watching him merrily waddle about the kitchen.

 _My best friend,_ he thought, turning the phrase over in his mind. The man he couldn’t live without — and he knew, because very briefly, he had tried. He thought about how the bookshop had looked in flames. This bookshop, this kitchen, this home.

For a moment, Crowley couldn’t breathe. Not much of an issue; he didn’t need to breathe. He was a _demon_ , after all. Not an issue. _Not an issue, not an issue, not an —_

The kettle began to sing, snapping Crowley back into the present.

“Anathema called this morning,” Aziraphale said casually, removing the chirping kettle from the stove. “Tadfield has a lovely little fair happening towards the end of the month. She thought we might like to come. The children will be there as well, of course.”

“Hmpf,” Crowley huffed.

“The cottage has a guest room. She says that we’re welcome to stay the night,” Aziraphale continued. “It’s supposed to be beautiful this time of year. I think we ought to go.”

“Sure,” Crowley muttered.

Aziraphale paused and came around the table to look Crowley in the eye.

“Crowley,” Aziraphale said softly — and _damn_ his softness, damn his _kindness._ “Are you alright?”

“Oh, I’m fine,” Crowley said, waving a hand. “Just thinking about my agenda for the evening. There’s a new nightclub opening in Southwark. I think I might go raise a bit of hell.”

“Ah, right then,” Aziraphale said, a sad smile playing on his lips. 

Aziraphale’s sandwiches were scrumptious, and the tea was piping hot and black as night — Crowley’s favorite. He felt so _safe_ with Aziraphale, so _loved_. A foreign sensation for a demon such as himself.

He hadn’t even noticed before. Not before he’d lost it all.

The meal passed in silence, neither of them knowing what to say. Crowley spared the hydrangeas and sunflowers one last glance as he left.

* * *

A week passed. The sunflowers and hydrangeas were now accompanied by a bouquet of orange roses, an arrangement of lilies, a vase of mini pink gerberas and yellow carnations, and a quaint assortment of button mums.

“I think I might run out of window sills if this keeps up,” Aziraphale joked after the sixth arrangement arrived, popping into the room out of thin air. (Crowley transported them in from his car. Aziraphale was in the lobby, and Crowley couldn’t risk being seen _holding_ the blessed things.)

“I’m sure you’ll be fine,” Crowley retorted. 

“Are you ready for this weekend?”

“This weekend,” Crowley muttered, trying to remember. “This weekend?”

“The _fair_ ,” Aziraphale clarified, a hint of amusement in his voice. “Anathema and Newt will be expecting us. We leave on Friday afternoon. I assume you’ll be wanting to drive?”

“Ah, right, yes,” Crowley said, nodding. “A fair, how quaint.”

“Well, Tadfield is a rather quaint village,” Aziraphale said. “I’m looking forward to it. The country looks so lovely and crisp this time of year. Early autumn and all that.”

“Oh, yes. Quite,” Crowley remarked distractedly. His eyes trailed over all the flowers in the bookshop. Dozens of them, by now. Had he lost his mind? Perhaps he’d lost his mind. _I did live through the end of the world_ , he thought. _Perhaps it’s catching up to me._

“I’ve got to go, actually,” Crowley whispered. “I really must go. I’ll see you on Friday.”

Crowley rushed out of the door as if the building was on fire all over again. Aziraphale watched him go with a pinched frown.

* * *

The next day, Crowley did something barbaric. Something ghastly. Something that, in all his years, he’d never even _considered_.

He had some flowers _delivered_. By a _flower delivery service._

It was easier that way, he reasoned. No hassle. No sneaking around so that Aziraphale wouldn’t see what he was doing, even though he knew that Aziraphale knew that they _both knew_ he was doing it. This way, he wouldn’t have to look Aziraphale in the eye or see the flowers he’d already brought sitting around the shop, bathed in sunlight.

 _You could just stop giving him flowers_ , a bratty little voice in his head whispered. He mentally shoved that little voice off the edge of a very tall cliff. 

* * *

On Friday, Crowley pulled up in front of the bookshop and waited nervously for Aziraphale to come out to the car. He wasn’t sure why he was so nervous. Perhaps it was the flowers, or the memories of fire licking at bookshelves, or the prospect of seeing Aziraphale smiling at him with open affection or the thought of grabbing Aziraphale by his lapels and—

“Good afternoon,” Aziraphale sang brightly as he opened the car door. Crowley flooded with warmth at the sound. “Are you ready?”

Crowley didn’t answer. He cranked up the stereo and started driving.

“I actually quite like this song,” Aziraphale yelled, struggling to be heard over both the music and the rushing traffic. “What’s it called?”

“What, Bohemian Rhapsody? You ‘quite like’ Bohemian Rhapsody? You’ve _never heard_ Bohemian Rhapsody before?”

“Well, I’ve heard it in your car before,” Aziraphale said. “Why? Is it popular?”

“ _Is it popular_ ,” Crowley mocked. “Yes, Aziraphale, Bohemian Rhapsody is _popular_ in the same way that _breathing_ is _popular_.”

“I was just wondering,” Aziraphale huffed. “In any case, I _do_ quite like it. Do you think you could play it again?”

Crowley played it on repeat for the rest of the car ride, smiling in spite of himself as Aziraphale slowly got a hold of the lyrics and began to sing along.

* * *

The fair was, quite unsurprisingly, _very_ quaint. The weather was perfect, the rides were delightful, and the food was piping hot. Crowley suspected that Adam’s powers — waning though they were — might have had something to do with it.

Crowley sneaked away from the fair about halfway through the evening. Aziraphale was lost in a friendly conversation with Newt and Anathema, the children were gorging themselves on sweets, and Crowley — well, Crowley was content to lurk along the outskirts of the affair.

And then — out of nowhere — he saw flowers. A whole _cascade_ of them, painted down the hillside, unseasonably bright and beautiful. Almost supernatural.

Crowley paused for a moment, giving great thought to what he was about to do. _I’m really about to do this,_ he thought. _This is a thing, and it’s happening. By Satan, I think I’ve lost it._

After a deep breath and a long sigh, Crowley set to work picking a bundle of flowers.

(If he’d looked back, he would have seen Adam’s sly grin peeking out from the crowd of carnival goers.)

* * *

His newfound bouquet presented him with quite the difficulty. 

He couldn’t very well march back into the carnival with a bouquet of hand-picked flowers. He had a reputation to uphold, after all — he was a demon, for hell’s sake. 

So, he did the only reasonable thing. He went back to Jasmine Cottage, where he knew a guest room would be waiting for him.

The cottage was quiet and unoccupied, a liminal space bathed in early twilight. It should have been peaceful, but Crowley just felt nervous and out of place. He saw some twine lying on the kitchen counter, right next to a carefully placed pair of scissors — strange, he thought. Useful, though. He set to work tying the flowers together.

Once he was done, he found his way to the guest room. An easy enough feat — it was the only room with an open door. The linens were fresh, the window was open, and a fresh candle sat on the bedside table, waiting to be lit. Crowley did so with a flourish of his hand.

“Crowley? Are you in here?” 

Crowley jumped out of his skin, spinning around to face the doorway. He didn’t say anything. Aziraphale found him anyway.

“Crowley, are you alright? I saw you leaving and I thought I should — oh,” he said, pausing when he saw the bundle of flowers in Crowley’s hands. “I, ah — I see you’ve been busy.”

“Yes, quite,” Crowley choked, willing his hands to stop shaking. 

“Are those —”

“Yeah, they’re for you. Here,” Crowley said, shooting his arms forward awkwardly. He felt childish and ancient all at once, acutely aware of both his age and his lack of experience in this sort of thing.

Aziraphale took the flowers with a gentle hand. When his eyes met Crowley’s, they were soft.

“Crowley,” he said, moving to place the flowers carefully on the windowsill. “My dear man, what’s gotten into you lately? I’ve been so worried, what with all the — well, you know.”

“I don’t know,” Crowley said, and he _didn’t_ know. He didn’t understand. He had so many thoughts, so many _feelings_ , but he couldn’t name a single one of them.

“You know,” Aziraphale whispered, stepping closer. “You can tell me anything. Really. We’re safe, for now. You don’t have to keep any secrets.”

“It’s not a secret,” Crowley said. “I don’t know what it is. Its — it’s —”

There, staring into Aziraphale’s soft, candlelit eyes, a thousand words came to Crowley at once.

Crowley grabbed Aziraphale by the cheeks, pulling him in close.

“I lost you,” Crowley whispered, broken. “Your bookshop was in flames. I thought you were gone. And then you weren’t gone. We survived the apocalypse, we survived hell’s torment and heaven’s fury, and now we’re here. We’re here and we don’t have to meet in secret anymore, and I just — I just don’t know how —“

“Crowley,” Aziraphale murmured, gentle as a feather. “My dear man.”

Crowley felt his cheeks dampen and realized that he’d begun to cry. Wiping at his tears, he pulled away.

“Anyway,” Crowley said, “it doesn’t matter. I’ll stop with the flowers. I don’t know what came over me.”

“You don’t have to stop,” Aziraphale said. “I don’t mind. I — I rather like them, in fact.”

They sat in silence for a moment, letting the blue haze of twilight wash over them. A gentle breeze floated in through the open window, helping dry Crowley’s tear-stained face.

“I love you,” Crowley stated, taking care to look as far away from Aziraphale as possible. His words were firm, resolute. “I’m probably not supposed to, but I do. I’ve loved you for — well, for who knows how long. When I thought you were dead, it was like a part of me died with you. I don’t want to lose you ever again.”

“You won’t,” Aziraphale promised. “And you must know that I love you too.”

Crowley snorted. “You love everything, you’re an _angel_.”

“Yes,” Aziraphale said. “But I don’t love you in the same way that I love everything else. I never have. I can’t imagine a universe without you in it. The thought is unbearable.”

Crowley mustered the courage to look into Aziraphale’s eyes. They were wide, glistening, and honest. 

“Aziraphale,” Crowley said, stepping closer. “I think I want to try something.”

Aziraphale tilted his head innocently. “What?”

Crowley stepped forward, grabbed Aziraphale by his lapels, and began to kiss him within an inch of his life. Aziraphale moaned happily into the touch.

“My God,” Aziraphale breathed, breaking away. “We should’ve been doing that for a thousand years.”

“Two thousand,” Crowley corrected, stealing another kiss. “Three thousand,” another kiss, “four thousand.”

“Yes, alright, I get the point,” Aziraphale laughed, reaching up to play with the hair at the nape of Crowley’s neck. Crowley shivered at the touch. “Do you like that?”

“I like anything that involves you touching me,” Crowley answered. “Anything in the world, angel.”

“Anything in the world,” Aziraphale repeated, trailing his fingers down Crowley’s neck, dipping them into the curve of Crowley’s collarbone.

“Anything,” Crowley said, pressing a kiss to Aziraphale’s neck. “As long as you keep touching me. Don’t ever stop touching me, angel, _please_.”

Aziraphale’s hands began to unbutton Crowley’s shirt. Crowley shuddered. On a whim, he rolled his hips forward slightly, hissing when he felt Aziraphale’s bulge rub against his own.

“Exactly how familiar are you with the pleasures of the flesh, Aziraphale?”

“Familiar enough,” Aziraphale answered cheekily, pushing Crowley’s unbuttoned shirt off of his shoulders. “What about you?”

“Familiar enough,” Crowley said, reaching forward to touch Aziraphale’s cock through his pants. Aziraphale moaned. “I’ve _dreamed_ about having you like this, angel, you have no idea.”

“I think I have some idea,” Aziraphale said, making quick work of his own vest and shirt. As soon as their chests were bare, Crowley leaned forward to press them together, relishing in the warmth and comfort of skin against skin.

“Tell me what you like,” Crowley whispered, nipping at Aziraphale’s ear. “I’m yours, I’m all yours. Please.”

“I’d like to be inside of you,” Aziraphale stated. Crowley shuddered. “But first, I should take my time opening you up, don’t you think, darling? After all, we have all the time in the world.”

Crowley groaned and dragged Aziraphale over to the bed, pulling them both down onto the duvet. Aziraphale giggled, settling in on top of him.

At the carnival, a young woman smiled, clutching a single, miraculously un-burnt prophecy. A young boy smiled as well, the image of a demon picking flowers forever burnt into his mind. Far away in London, no angels were dining at the Ritz — but a nightingale sang his song in Berkeley square all the same. 

  


**Author's Note:**

> I will buy the flower shop, and you will never be lonely  
> Even if the sun stops waking up over the fields  
> I will not leave, I will not leave 'till it's our time  
> So just take my hand, you know that I will never leave your side  
> —"The Gambler" by Fun.


End file.
